


Contrasts

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Consensual, Gunplay, M/M, PWP, Rape Fantasy, Roleplay, Rough Oral Sex, it seems like non con but I swear it is all in good fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 09:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5086225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dangerous games</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contrasts

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to HumsHappily for looking this over. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Breathless and terrified, Sherlock choked out, “You don’t have to do this. I’ll give you anything you want,” and wished again that he could see the man’s face. 

He had been caught off guard at home in rare slumber. Dragged from his bed to the sitting room. Sleep addled and hampered by the obscurity of his attacker’s damn ski mask, there wasn’t enough data. Mask, gun, nondescript black clothes. The curve of lips and the piercing blue of the eyes not enough to read the tells and microexpressions he was so used to analysing. Sherlock blinked, willing the deductions to take shape.

His attacker laughed, a sound that made Sherlock’s stomach clench. His heart was hammering in his chest and for just a moment, the rush of his blood drowned out all other sounds. How had he ended up here? His mind was static, registering only that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

He could feel the slow slide of fabric against his skin as his shirt was unbuttoned. 

“Oh Sherlock,” the man said, his voice deceptively calm and with a warmth that never met his eyes, “This _is_ what I want.” 

As the shirt fell to the floor, he held Sherlock’s gaze and dragged the revolver slowly down Sherlock’s cheek in a cruel parody of caress. A slight smile curved his lips as he lowered the weapon and lunged forward with the speed of a striking cobra. He grabbed Sherlock’s face, his thumb digging in viciously just above the jaw. 

Sherlock’s eyes watered and he couldn’t help the cry wrenched from his lips as his mouth was pried open. The ferrous tang of his own blood barely registered before his senses were overpowered with the feel of cold metal against his tongue and the bitter tang of gun oil and steel.

“Suck,” his assailant said. “Make me believe you want it.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and began to suck, trying not to gag at the taste, the feel, the knowledge of exactly what he held in his mouth. It was hard and cold and so _wrong_. 

Tears stung the corners of his eyes as he tried desperately to relax his throat. He took the barrel in until his lips brushed the trigger guard, squeezing his eyes shut tighter as he reminded himself that he could still breathe, despite the intrusion in his throat. He relaxed and gave himself over to the task, tongue caressing every ridge and groove of the piece. _Make me believe you want it_

If he could concentrate on cataloging the sensations, simply doing as he was bidden, he could get through this. That was his only hope at this point. He needed to survive until John came to find him or his attacker slipped up enough that he could escape. There was an off chance that he would be let go after they had achieved their goal, but there were no guarantees. He could do this, bide his time with whatever bizarre game this was, provided that this man didn’t get bored and simply pull the trigger.

No, no, it shouldn’t come to that. There was a better than 85% chance that he wasn’t interested in killing him. He had worn a mask and there was no reason to protect his identity if he planned on killing Sherlock outright. Unless of course he wanted Sherlock to deduce who he was. Even so, if that had been the intention he would likely have started down that path. No, this act, this horror, on his knees fellating a piece of metal, this was how his assailant wanted him.

And as that registered, his body began to betray him. He tried to duck his head, but even that movement was denied him, held in place as he was. Pulse racing, cheeks aflame with mingled lust and shame. 

He willed it to stop, but everything, the helplessness, the abject humiliation and terror of this position, it was too much and he could feel the hardness of his growing length against his thigh.

And it hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

“When I told you to make me believe you wanted it, I had no idea you could be quite so _convincing_ ,” his assailant mocked, running the tip of one polished boot over the taut fabric of Sherlock’s trousers. 

Sherlock shuddered, his mouth still too full to make any reply.

The gun was wrenched free and wiped across Sherlock’s face, a line of pink tinged spittle smeared across his zygomatic arch. Then a low chuckle and Sherlock felt the metal digging in at the base of his skull as the assailant cradled the back of his head with his gun hand. 

Distantly, Sherlock registered the sound of a zip being lowered.

He looked like a wild thing, pupils blown wide in those enigmatic eyes. 

“You did that so well, I think deserve something a bit more palatable, don’t you think?”

“Please,” Sherlock began. 

Did he wish to entreat for some small mercy, a respite from the onslaught? It was more fun to assume another meaning entirely. 

“When you ask so nicely, who could be so cruel as to refuse?” He dragged Sherlock forward, sliding deep between his plush lips, burying himself in the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth. He savoured the sensation a moment before he pulled back and thrust again. Faster and faster he used Sherlock’s mouth for his pleasure, a warm wet hole to plunder, all the more delicious by the moans and whimpers of his captive. 

Sherlock did his best to suck, undulating his tongue against the underside of the thick cock filling his mouth, but gave up, settling for concentrating on breathing as he was used thoroughly.

There was a small click as his assailant thumbed the hammer and Sherlock groaned, the muffled sound caught between pain and desire. The vibrations felt exquisite and the man couldn’t hold off any longer. He thrust deep and held Sherlock in place. “You were positively made for this, weren’t you?” he growled out as he came. 

Sherlock hummed in response, neither quite affirmation or denial, merely responding to the other’s voice, drowning in the chemical miasma of fear and desire, and his throat worked as he swallowing as much as he could manage.

After a moment, John pulled out and tucked himself away, letting Sherlock lean against his hip. He looked down at the mess Sherlock had made of his own trousers and smiled to himself, wondering whether it was his orgasm or cocking the gun that sent Sherlock over the edge. He had been too lost in his own pleasure to tell and made a mental note to ask later. If previous experience was anything to go by, it should be about half an hour before Sherlock’s linguistic abilities would come back online. 

John pulled the mask off. Bloody hot, but completely worth it. He ran his fingers through his lover’s hair. “Sherlock,” he whispered.

Sherlock hummed a slight response, looking up and blinking at the sight of John’s satisfied face.

“Come back to me, love,” John said, guiding Sherlock to lay down. It wouldn’t do to leave him on the carpet too long, but it was better than letting him fall. He pulled the afghan and one of the couch cushions down, slipping the pillow under Sherlock’s head and draping him with the blanket. He stared down at his love. Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed, processing. John knelt beside him and brushed an errant curl back from his forehead and leant down planting a tender kiss on his cheek. “Back in a minute,” he breathed, in case Sherlock surprised him by coming down from their play while he was out of the room, then went to fetch supplies to clean up.

Twenty minutes later, as he finished striping, cleaning, and reassembling his weapon, he heard Sherlock stir and murmur, “Thank you, John.”

He stood and helped Sherlock up. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Suddenly, he frowned and ran his thumb over the cut on Sherlock’s lip.

“Don’t.” Sherlock said.

“Don’t what?”

“You were going to tell me you were sorry. Don’t.” He tried to slip back to his usual imperious tone, but the color in his cheeks told a different story. Quietly, he added, “ I like it when you get carried away.” 

“That’s all right, then. I was going to say I’ll be more careful, but perhaps not.” John smiled and kissed the corner of his mouth. “We should get you cleaned up, though.”

Sherlock nodded and let himself be led to the shower, waited patiently as John fussed with the taps, feeling more peaceful than he had in weeks. 

“You alright by yourself or shall I join you?”

“Mmm, I’ll be fine. You’re hungry and I think I actually will be by the time an order would get here. Anything is fine.”

John ordered Sherlock’s favorite’s from Angelo, who was only too happy to deliver, then put the gun away and set about putting the sitting room to rights. 

He had just settled onto the couch with a cuppa when Sherlock came out and nestled in beside him, pillowing his head on John’s thigh. John stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s damp curls, murmuring endearments that on other occasions would earn him snappish retorts about useless romanticism, but in this state Sherlock endured it with good grace and an occasional smile. And when John said,”I love you,” pleasure bloomed in Sherlock’s chest and he found that somehow didn’t find himself scoffing at sentiment at all.


End file.
